Elocution Lessons
by Doors
Summary: Scabior doesn't understand what it means to be respected, but he wants to. He wants the sort of power Fenrir Greyback has over people, the power to make them quiver and kneel before him. But that's the kind of power that comes from being hated and feared, and Greyback doesn't understand what it means to be respected either.
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING:** Will contain violence, murder, gore and dubious consent. Read at your own risk.  
**Notes:** Written for kijani's Harry Potter 10k and Gamma Orionis' OTP Boot Camp Challenge with the prompt 'young'. It's a kind of mentor/protégé relationship with a sexual aspect.

Sort-of sequal to A_ Man Called Fenrir_.

* * *

**ELOCUTION LESSONS**

**Chapter One**

Scabior hadn't had a lot of money growing up. His parents claimed to be Purebloods, but it was most definitely more diluted than they made out. Scabior knew for a fact that one of his great-aunts was a veterinarian, but his parents never mentioned her, or any of the other family they had that hadn't been born quite magical. Family gatherings were usually restricted to a handful of aunts and uncles who stood around drinking corner-shop plonk as though it was Merlot and talking about how they'd once met Abraxas Malfoy's father, and cousins who liked to steal the adults' wands and set cats' tails on fire. He'd grown up in some god-forsaken corner of London, surrounded by Muggles and told to pretend to his neighbours that he was one, too. He'd spent his evenings during the summer months mucking about on street corners with the local youths, drinking cheap cider from cans and throwing the empty ones at passing children. It wasn't exactly idyllic, but it was all he'd ever known or thought could be, so he didn't complain.

The summer after he left Hogwarts, however, the rumours about the Death Eaters that had been quietly building since his first year began to become more than just furtive whispers.

Scabior had left school with two OWLs to his name, and his mother hadn't been thrilled. She'd let him continue living with her, rent-free, though, on the condition that he moved to the sofa and found a job. A boy in Scabior's year at school, Wilkes, had apparently joined the Death Eaters before he'd left, and Scabior had heard vague rumours that the rewards were grand indeed. He wrote to Wilkes asking about it, and Wilkes agreed to meet him for a drink in a pub in Knockturn Alley.

He had emphasised the need for loyalty, devotion, skill, loyalty, a certain bloodthirstiness, and a number of other things that Scabior didn't really pay attention to. He was too busy watching the barmaid. But when Wilkes finished talking, he asked if he could possibly have job with them, doing anything, because the shops in Diagon Alley were overstaffed as it was. Wilkes smirked, and said the Death Eaters had been waiting for a new recruit to do a certain, _special_ job – looking after a puppy, he'd said – and he'd said that he would be paid well, and there was the possibility of promotions. Scabior had agreed then and there, and Wilkes had handed to him, straight away, a slip of parchment with a name and address.

"Good luck," he'd said with a broad smile, and Scabior hadn't thought much more of that.

He followed the instructions on how to get to his knew place of work as written the scrappy bit of parchment. He seemed to walk for hours, and though he wouldn't admit it to himself, he got lost once or twice. Eventually he found himself in a run-down sort of area. There weren't many houses, but those that were there were large buildings with sprawling, overgrown gardens, suggesting that the area has once been quite affluent. It evidently wasn't any more. A ginger tomcat prowled across the cracked pavement in front of him, hissing.

Scabior frowned and studied his parchment, then looked around. The houses didn't seem as though they were still inhabited. For the most part, the windows were boarded up and there was a fine collection of litter on display in the gardens – broken beer bottles, empty crisp packets and broken bits of Muggle gadgets. The only house that showed any sign of life was the one that the tomcat was now slinking towards.

A small old lady, hunched over, her skin shrivelled and sagging, was beating a ratty rug against the low garden wall while a skinny tabby cat wound around her feet. Scabior approached her hesitantly. Her brow was furrowed and she did not look to be particularly friendly.

"'Scuse me?" he called, over the sound of the rug thwacking against the wall. "'Ello?"

She stopped eventually, giving him a look that said she did not appreciate being told what to do by a scruffy little urchin like him. "What d'you want?" she asked abruptly.

"Er... I'm lookin' for an 'ouse," said Scabior. "I'm meant to be workin' there, only it doesn't look like anyone lives 'ere, so maybe I've got the wrong place...?"

The woman snatched the parchment from him, deftly, despite her withered, crooked hands, and Scabior stared at her, rather taken aback.

"Ah, yes. That's Greyback's place. Number eleven. Up that way." She gestured. "Wouldn't go there if I was you."

"Why not?" asked Scabior.

"Man's a maniac. I only seen him a couple of times, saw him go on once but never seen him come out, but the noises that come from that place..." She trailed off, looking miserable, a ghost of fear passing behind her eyes.

"What sorta noises?" asked Scabior.

"Screaming," said the old lady. "In the night. So loud it wakes me up. Not every night, mind you, but it sure as I'm standing here comes from that house. It's like he's torturing a little child or putting an animal in a cage. I called the police." At this point, she reached out and gripped Scabior's wrist, firmly, trembling. "I called them, by they said there was no number eleven. They said I'm making it up. But I'm not, you see? He's in there. And he's a monster."

There was a moment of intense silence.

"Alright," said Scabior cheerily. "Thanks for your 'elp." And he broke away from her, heading in the direction that she had first advised him.

"Don't go there!" she called out, but she didn't move to follow him. He had long strides and had already covered too much ground, and besides, she didn't seem to want to set a foot in the direction of the house. Scabior looked back, and she was standing staring at him, a look of sadness and terror on her face, but he just turned back, shrugged, kept on walking and began to hum to himself.

He reached the end of the houses eventually. The grey footpath wound snakelike uphill, and the houses were scattered around it almost carelessly. When he reached the top of the hill, the end of the estate, he stopped for a moment to get his breath back, hands on knees. There was a mesh fence erected at the ending of the footpath, with plastic Muggle signs that warned about renovation on the other side. Scabior wondered if their drills and tools were what the old lady had heard, but he knew, from the look on her face, that she was certain about what she was hearing. It was probably spells gone wrong, he thought to himself. Or a magical artefact that just happened to make unpleasant noises. Or something.

He tuned, looking for number eleven. The row ended at number nine, slightly further down the hill. Number ten was behind him on the other side, looking desolate and dirty and blackened and boarded up. Scabior straightened up and looked at the parchment again. Number Eleven, it definitely said. It was written elegantly, in blue ink.

"Come on," he growled, and as he looked ahead, the grass in front of him began to writhe. From it protruded a metal spike – a spire – followed shortly after, as the thing began to rise, by slabs of dark slate and a dirty white wall, dusty windows and a peeling door. Before he knew it, Scabior was looking at Number Eleven. "That's more like it," he said to himself, an, checking around to make sure that nobody was watching (though there was no-one in sight), he strode forward and rapped on the door.

After a few moments, it was answered by the man Scabior had been told was called Fenrir Greyback. Scabior's first impression was that he was enormous. He seemed to take up the whole doorway. His robes were a dark grey, tattered at the edges, and looked much too tight for him, as though he'd bought them long ago.

Scabior's second impression was that the man looked wild. His hair hung in loose curls almost down to his shoulders, and was dirty and matted. His teeth and his overlong nails were yellow, and he looked as though he hadn't had a bath in years. Pointed ears poked through his tangled hair, and his teeth were pointed and sharp, giving him a somewhat _bestial_ appearance. The lower half of his face was covered in the sort of scruff that said he did shave occasionally, but thought it much too troublesome to bother with often. Scabior supposed, because he appreciated things of beauty, that the man hadn't been ugly, once, but now he looked, frankly, like shit.

And the last thing Scabior noticed about him, before his train of thought was interrupted, was that his eyes were a strange shade of yellow, and had dark purplish shadows sagging under them. He looked impossibly tired.

"Whaddaya want?" he growled, eyes narrowed.

"Fenrir Greyback, sir?" Scabior stuck out his hand, which Greyback ignored. "They sent me 'ere to do somethin' for you. Somethin' about a puppy, 'sat right?"

Greyback wrinkled his nose, as though he was smelling him. Scabior shifted uncomfortably. He knew he probably smelt like burnt toast and dish soap – there was no door between his front room and kitchen. He let his hand drop, abashed.

"You are…?" said Greyback, his voice a low snarl.

"Scabior, sir. I work with the Death Eaters." It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Scabior who? You look about twelve."

"I'm seventeen!" Scabior frowned, indignant.

Greyback snorted. "And when did you decide death eating was a suitable career choice?"

Scabior blinked at him, and rubbed the back of his head, looking at the ground. He had no idea what exactly 'death eating' was, of course, and was hoping that, as his employer, Greyback would show him the ropes. But instead he sighed, scratched under his chin with those horrible talons, and said, "The kid's in bed. I assume you've been told what you're to do. I'm going out. Don't touch anything. If you don't do this right, I'll rip your throat out and I'll eat it."

Scabior gulped. He didn't know what else to say, so he waited for Greyback to say something else, but he didn't. He just pushed past Scabior, who stared after him, and Disapparated with a crack. Scabior blinked at the spot he had been, and then turned slowly back to the house. The door was open, revealing a long, dark hallway with peeling paint. The floorboards were bare and there were no pictures hanging on the walls. As he stepped inside, the floor creaked beneath his feet and he wondered to himself just what he was entering into, and if it wasn't too late to turn back.

A kid, Greyback had said. A kid, in bed. What did he mean, a kid? Scabior had been told he was to look after a puppy. He wasn't any good with children. Animals he could cope with. All a dog needed was a scratch behind the ears and a couple of scraps of meat. A child needed clothing, and bathing, and… changing. Scabior shuddered. And what about those strange noises the old woman on the way had talked about? Oh, God… what if he was keeping some sort of animal for conducting experiments on, trying to make it into a human? A chill ran up his spine. He'd read a book like that, once. Well, he hadn't exactly read it, but a local boy said his sister had, and that it was "fuckin' messed up, man". That was why Scabior did not read books.

The door behind him swung shut with a bang and he jumped. He knew it was just the wind – at least, he told himself it was – but he couldn't help feeling that he'd found himself in one of the ghost stories that his aunt used to tell when he was a small child. It took just a moment for his eyes to become adjusted to the dark: the windows, thankfully, were clear of dust, and the sunlight from outside was enough that he didn't need his wand for illumination, despite the lack of other lighting.

He walked slowly to the end of the hallway, tense, waiting for something to jump out at him at any moment. The door there was slightly ajar, and he pushed it open. It didn't make a sound, and he crept forward into the room hesitantly, wondering if he was about to be set upon by whatever mutant creation Greyback kept here – and almost jumped out of his skin at a loud screeching sound from beneath him.

He stumbled backwards, grappling for his wand, pointing it at the source of the noise, trying desperately to recall any curses he'd learnt for protection, and found himself staring at a headless rubber chicken. He closed his eyes and let out a breath of relief. Just a toy, that was all… And when his speeding heart had quietened down, he opened his eyes and he looked around the room and he saw it.

A pile of bones in the corner, not white and dry as they were in the pictures of the horror books he'd read as a child, but thick with a slimy red something that could only have been flesh. There were all kinds – large, heavy looking, ones that would have been part of a leg at some point, some that looked about the size of his own lower arm, and some tiny assorted and unidentifiable ones. Blood trickled from them into a small, congealing black pool on the floor, and nearby walls were smeared with red. As Scabior stared at them, unable to look away, he saw dents and incisions in them, as though someone – some_thing_ – had been gnawing at them. And, now that he noticed, the _smell_. The smell was unbearable. But the worst part – and Scabior had to repeat it to himself over and over again to convince himself that he believed it was not true – was that each and every one of the bones looked terribly, terribly human.

Gagging, hand covering his mouth, eyes wide in horror at the sight before him, Scabior turned and ran from the room. Arms out in front of him, he stumbled into the nearest door. It led into a sitting room, wide and sprawling, with worn red furniture. It seemed to be completely empty otherwise, devoid of all magic, and Scabior slumped onto the sofa, drawing his wand and shaking. Something Wilkes had said earlier came back to his mind. _He's a bit… odd. Bit creepy. But you're being paid, aren't you?_

Scabior shuddered and swallowed. If he left now he would be shoved out of the Death Eaters and then he'd have to go back home and stay on his mother's sofa and smell like burnt toast and dish soap until he was an old, old man while his peers did something interesting and worthwhile with their lives. So he gripped his wand tightly and sat very, very still. Once or twice he heard something stir upstairs, and if he listened closely he could hear something breathing, but he didn't leave the room and he didn't go to see what it was. He assumed it would cry if it wanted anything – or whine or howl or whatever it was that sort of creature did. But it didn't; it seemed to be asleep, so Scabior didn't do anything and he didn't move until the twilight had faded and it was completely dark and Greyback returned.

He smelled of dirt and ale and Scabior pushed past him before he even had a chance to step in the doorway.

"Eager to leave, are you?" said Greyback, with a rasping sort of chuckle. "Can't say I'm surprised. Same time next week?"

Scabior whimpered.

/

He met Wilkes for a drink and told him what he had seen, about the bones, and noises, and the emptiness and the bloody _creepiness_ of the whole thing. Wilkes laughed.

"'Spose I shoulda told you," he said, "but I thought it'd be funny. Besides, the other fellas don't want it spread about where he lives. Told them they could trust you not to tell, though, mate." He slapped Scabior's shoulder.

"Tell _what_?" asked Scabior.

"Greyback's a werewolf, and so's the kid. He does some jobs for us, the dirty ones, y'know? You gettin' the next round in?"

Scabior, though stunned, and a bit frightened, did get the next round in, and he did go back at the same time next week. The latter required a bit of consideration, but he reasoned eventually that werewolves weren't that scary, really, when they were normal, and there was money at stake, and those bones couldn't be _human_, after all...

Greyback raised his eyebrows when Scabior appeared at his door again, and Scabior set his jaw and nodded and said nothing. Greyback opened the door a little wider and gestured for Scabior to make his way inside. Scabior did so, and this time Greyback didn't Disapparate straight away.

"I never gave you the tour," he said, closing the door slightly and advancing further down the hall. Scabior felt suddenly very claustrophobic, and backed off slightly.

"Nah, 'salright… 'Sjust an 'ouse, innit?"

"The front room," said Greyback, ignoring him, elbowing the nearest door open. "You can see the view from the top of the hill from here. Lovely, isn't it?"

"Yeah," said Scabior, who was not moving any closer.

"Come and have a look," said Greyback.

"Nah, thanks," said Scabior. "'M fine where I am."

"I said…" said Greyback, and Scabior got the point. He took a couple of hesitant steps forward and peered into the room. It wasn't the one he'd been in last time; it was bigger, with a fireplace, a mirror… Parchments and newspapers were scattered a little on and around a writing-desk in the corner, a couple of plates with remnants of food on the floor near the sofa. It was more lived-in, but still creepy as hell. From where he stood, Scabior could make out a glimpse of the outside world from the window.

"'Sbeautiful," he said, then backed away again before Greyback could turn around. He wasn't _scared_ of him – that would be ridiculous (or that was what he told himself) – but he didn't want the man anywhere near him, because… because he was much bigger than Scabior was and he was dirty and he smelled and he was a werewolf, for crying out loud.

Greyback cocked an eyebrow and pointed towards the door to the room Scabior had sat in the last time. "Living room. I'm keeping it for the others. Kitchen." He pointed. "I think that should be obvious enough." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Spare bedroom. There are other bedrooms upstairs, but _of course_ you knew that… And the bathroom's the door at the top. I needn't tell you _that_."

Scabior nodded weakly. He had no idea, and he knew Greyback knew he had no idea, but he had to at least pretend to agree, to be a good employee. There was a small _thump-thump_ing of feet on the stairs, and Scabior stared. He couldn't see past the banister to who was coming down, but Greyback shifted slightly and then behind him, clinging to his trouser-leg, Scabior could see in the shadows a little boy.

"And this is Loki," said Greyback, placing a hand on the boys' head. "He needs to be fed."

And with that, he smiled at Scabior with those pointed yellow teeth, and patted the boy on the back, and turned and left the house, and Scabior was left alone with a small child.

He tried to smile, though he felt it came out more of a grimace, and said, "So, er… You 'ungry?"

Loki shrugged, looking down at the floor, shuffling a little. Scabior wasn't good at judging the ages of children; he hadn't been around enough of them to know much more than that they were snotty and dirty and whined a lot. This one looked about five years old, though, and was wearing a shirt that was too big for him, and jeans with holes in them. His hair looked too long, and hung about his face and stuck up slightly in odd directions.

"Where does your da—er—Greyback—er—Where does 'e keep the food?" asked Scabior.

"Cupboard," said Loki.

"Right," said Scabior, and turned to go into the kitchen. Loki followed him. Scabior looked around, wishing he wouldn't. He felt uncomfortable enough without having a child trail him. The bones from before were gone, but the wall was stained slightly brown. Scabior swallowed, and tried to ignore it, and began looking in the cupboards. There was bread and butter in one, but not much else, but the second one he opened was chilled by some sort of magic and it was piled high with slabs of red, unidentifiable meat. "Er," said Scabior. "Er… D'you eat this?"

He looked around. Loki was gazing at the cupboard hopefully. "Oh," said Scabior. "Oh. Right."

He fed Loki, and he talked with him – as much as he could bear to – before putting him to bed (and managing to avoid having to tell him a story). He resisted the urge to ask him if he knew what Greyback had meant by "saving it for the others", because he had a horrible, gnawing feeling in his gut that he knew himself. Before Loki settled, he asked Scabior, through yawns, "Are you a wizard?" Scabior nodded. "Oh. Fenrir says – he says wizards are bad. Are you bad?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh," said Loki, and fell asleep.

/

The gnawing feeling in his gut was right. Several more times he returned, and several more times he tried to avoid the child whenever possible. Loki looked at him with wide eyes, as though he was the first person he had ever seen, and Scabior tried not to make eye contact, and put him to bed as soon as possible, ignoring requests for stories.

"Fenrir always tells me stories."

"I ain't Fenrir."

"About dragons and witches and… and little girls who get lost in the woods, and she meets this big wolf, and she thinks he's bad, but he's not, because her grandmother is really an evil witch, and—"

"I ain't Fenrir."

_Fenrir_ seemed determined to make Scabior's life a misery. There was something about him that made him feel on edge – and it _wasn't_ the werewolf thing, it wasn't, it wasn't, Scabior told himself. It was the fact that everything he did seemed somehow calculated to frighten him, the way he talked which seemed to suggest he was going to do something horrible to Scabior if he decided he didn't like him. But he never tried to hurt him physically – all he did was bring another child to the house.

One evening, when Scabior turned up, Greyback told him there was a new addition to the household and he better mind the sibling rivalry. He didn't say how, and he didn't say why, all he said was that her name was Harriet.

Harriet turned out to be a very small toddler, who had just learned to walk and liked to pull on things. Scabior spent much of the evening trying not to have his trousers pulled down, or his hair tugged out. Loki thought it was funny to poke her, and she cried very loudly.

Every two months or so after that, Greyback would introduce – or, at least, mention – a new addition. Scabior couldn't keep track of their names, but he found himself growing quite fond of them, and even deigned to read them a bedtime story once in a while. They had him attempting to bake them cauldron cakes on occasion, which was difficult with Harriet smashing the eggs on the floor and clapping flour over herself, and one boy that Scabior thought might have been called Algernon eating all of the mixture when his back was turned.

"I don't blame you," he said to the little boy. "It's nothin' I wouldn't do mysel'."

But they seemed to gang up on him. To _bully_ him. Which was ridiculous, Scabior thought, because they were a group of children and he was a fully-grown adult. Well, nearly eighteen. But they seemed to make his job deliberately difficult, swinging from the rafters that ran across the roof and stealing his wand and setting fire to things and smearing their dinner on the windows. It might have been normal child behaviour, for all he knew, but Loki, who was not the eldest but seemed to be the most articulate, sometimes made comments about Scabior was _different_ than them.

"'Snot what I thought it would be like," said Scabior to Greyback on the way out one evening. "Workin' for the Dark Lord. Thought it'd be more like bein' a pirate or somethin'." Greyback just sort of snorted at him.

He spoke to Wilkes over a pint and asked him if he could possibly be inducted into the proper Death Eater jobs yet, pretty please. Wilkes snorted into his drink.

"What, you? Why? You're a _cub-sitter_. I'm not going to bring that up in the meetings. We like to pretend Greyback's pack doesn't exist."

Scabior had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it. He wasn't one for pleading. His mother had always told him he could make it up the ranks with patience and hard work. That was why none of the men in the family had ever made it anywhere, she said. They were all lazy, good-for-nothing sods. But Scabior was determined to persevere.

One day, when he was going to _cub-sit_, as Wilkes put it, he witnessed a man leaving the house. He was skeletal, his skin milky-white and riddled with faint scars, his eyes dark and blank, and he looked half-crazed and so very, very scared. Scabior didn't think much of it as the man hurried past him without meeting his eye – because who knew what Greyback did in his free time? But the sleeve of the man's robe was pulled back by the wind and Scabior caught sight of a dark burn mark on his lower arm – the mark of the Dark Lord.

So Scabior realised it wasn't just him. It wasn't Greyback and his silly little kids bullying him, and it wasn't all in his head. The others were scared of Greyback, too. That was why they wanted to ignore him. That was why they pretended he didn't exist. That was why they sent Scabior into his home, rather than an experienced and Death Eater who'd already received the Mark. Because Greyback was terrifying, and he was probably a monster to boot – a real one, not the sort that he told his children about. And it was then Scabior realised that if he wanted the Death Eaters' respect, he needed to be like Greyback, instead of just his skivvy. Or that was what he thought, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**I somehow managed to delete this chapter because I am an arse.**

It'll be re-written (and hopefully better!) in the next couple of weeks. In the meantime have a drabble, because I don't actually remember what this chapter was about.

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_Interlude_

"Well?" growled Greyback, his lips pulled back from his teeth, his eyes dark and dangerous.

Trembling, Scabior looked across at him. He wasn't sure whether Greyback would know he was lying. His free hand gripped the sofa cushion, nails catching the fabric. It was scruffy anyway but Scabior wondered if Greyback might find this disrespectful, so he rubbed his jeans instead.

"Well?" Greyback asked again, and this time there was a definite impatience in his voice.

Trying to convince himself more than anything, Scabior nodded, right hand curling convulsively round his mug. "You do. You make a bloody good cuppa."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Greyback led Scabior into the kitchen. It was a shambles, as it always was. The countertops were covered with every manner of cooking utensils and all sorts of food in scraps. Scabior wrinkled his nose at the smells of various kinds of stale food that mingled in the air.

Greyback pulled a glass from the cupboard and poured himself a drink while Scabior watched. Scabior didn't dare ask one for himself. He knew he had probably pissed Greyback off enormously with his 'normal people' comment, and the only reason Greyback hadn't yet decided to lynch him for it was because he found him somehow amusing.

He turned to Scabior and leant back against the kitchen counter, his glass held loosely in his hand, surveying him through slightly narrowed eyes. He seemed to be contemplating something – what, Scabior didn't dare ask. He swirled whatever it was in his glass around a few times, took a swig, and then licked his lips.

"So, you want to be a Death Eater?" he said at last, easing somewhat the tension Scabior had felt.

"Yes," he said, in relief. "I already told you–"

"Why?" asked Greyback, and Scabior blinked at him.

"Er," he said, "because everyone else is," and he realised how stupid he sounded as soon as the words left his mouth.

Greyback choked out a laugh. "Oh, son, you've a hell of a lot to learn." He took another gulp of his drink, and gave an _ahh _of satisfaction, running his tongue across his lower lip as though he was taunting Scabior. Scabior wasn't sure if it was just over not having a drink, either: he was staring at him in a way that made him uncomfortable, as though he was trying to think of how he could humiliate him or something.

"Well, it's not like there's a lot of other jobs about, is it?" he asked, swallowing, shifting from foot to foot, trying to look as though he wasn't fazed by Greyback's stare, and knew exactly what he wanted. "I just want money, and I wanna be successful, yeah?"

"Successful?" snorted Greyback. "You mean, you want to be the Dark Lord's Right-Hand Man?"

"Maybe," said Scabior hesitantly, not sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing Greyback was suggesting. The tone of voice he spoke in seemed to suggest that Scabior hadn't the slightest chance of making it into the Death Eaters, ever, at all. He would prove Greyback wrong, though, he knew he would. He couldn't remember why he'd wanted in in the first place, all he knew now was that he wanted it all the more for being told he couldn't do it. And if there was one thing true about Scabior, it was that when be put his mind to something, he'd get it done. Maybe what he wanted to do was stupid – and it had been in the past, and maybe what he wanted to do was not worth the effort he'd end up expending on it – but there was a reason he'd been placed in Slytherin, and his father had often remarked that it wasn't for his wit.

Greyback chuckled. "You've no idea what you want, do you, pretty-boy?"

"I do," protested Scabior, his hands balling into fists. "I wanna get in, I wann–Pretty-boy?"

Greyback shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, and he drained the last of his glass. He set it onto the counter with a clink, folded his arms and regarded Scabior with a steady, yellow gaze. "You're very pretty," he said, in an almost matter-of-fact way.

"I–Oh–Er–Thanks?" muttered Scabior, and Greyback chuckled.

"So you want... what? Honour? Respect? Money? Beautiful women? A place in history? What?"

"Yes, yes, yes and yes," said Scabior, wishing Greyback would bloody understand already and they could move onto whatever it was he had seemed to want to talk to him about in the first place. "I want that. All of that. I ain't messin' around, y'know," he said, as Greyback laughed quietly. "I'm serious. I can do it. I'd be good at it, too."

"You think so?" said Greyback, and he shifted his position, stood up straighter. Scabior mirrored his actions unconsciously, and Greyback's smirk grew bigger.

"You want to be like me?"

"No," blurted Scabior, before he had time to think about it. "I mean–"

"That's alright, I know very well what you meant," said Greyback, and his eyes gleamed dangerously. "You want to be better than be, because I'm a werewolf, and I'm living in squalor with more kids than I can handle, and I'm reduced to killing for a living."

Scabior swallowed, balked. "That's not–I didn't mean–"

"The good news," said Greyback, ignoring him and looking out of the window, "is that even if you never make it into the Death Eaters' inner circle, you'll probably be better off than me. Because you're a wizard, you see?"

He paused for a second, as though he was awaiting some sort of response from Scabior, and Scabior attempted to grunt his agreement in the same way that Greyback grunted at him – but he wasn't sure he was supposed to be agreeing, and it came out a squeak.

"The bad news," Greyback continued, "is that for someone who wants to become a Death Eater – for whatever _possible _reason..." He paused again, and Scabior could see in his face that he thought there was no possible reason. "Anyone willing to subject themselves to that... Well, it won't be a stroll in the meadow. There's a lot of killing involved. Have you ever killed anyone, Scabior?"

Scabior didn't know what to say. He hadn't, of course. He didn't really want to. But if that was what it took to be a part of this... He would do anything.

"Could you?"

"I... could do whatever was necessary," Scabior affirmed, deciding that that was a bridge he would have to cross when the time came.

"Could you?" said Greyback, and his smile widened. It as horrible, lips pulled back from his rotting teeth, and Scabior almost felt like telling him that, yes, he could, but _he_could go and stuff it – Scabior would find someone else to mentor him, someone who had better personal hygiene. But he didn't, partly because he was scared of what Greyback would do to him and partly because he knew that if he left Greyback's house now, none of the other Death Eaters would be willing to speak with him. They weren't willing to do anything more than make fun of him now, in any case.

"Yeah," said Scabior. "Yeah, I could."

Then Greyback tore his eyes from the window and looked back at Scabior, running his tongue slowly over his lips again. "Only, sometimes, the things the Dark Lord asks of his followers are not the most pleasant of things. Sometimes they are... more than demeaning tasks."

"Listen," said Scabior, "I just got beaten up by a troll-wrestler; I think I know a bit about demeanin' tasks."

Greyback raised an eyebrow. "But do you? And would you be able to carry something out even if you were yourself morally opposed to it? One of the things the Dark Lord searches for in his followers, after all, is their unwavering loyalty.

"I told you," said Scabior, beginning to get frustrated now, "whatever 'e wants of me, I'll do it. Anythin'. I just wanna be in for real, that's all."

"Anything?" asked Greyback quietly.

"Anythin'," Scabior reaffirmed. And he immediately wished he hadn't, for Greyback's lips were pulled back fully from his teeth – crusted yellow, too sharp, dribbling with saliva – and he uncrossed his arms and leant forward. Before Scabior knew what was happening, for he hadn't been expecting it, one of Greyback's hands had grabbed the hair on the back of his head, and the other was at Greyback's own crotch, pulling apart his robes and unfastening his trousers. Scabior yelped in shock, before he was forced to his knees and the wind was knocked out of him. He looked up; above Greyback's belly he could see the man leering down at him. His hand was still tangled in Scabior's hair, clenching and pulling it (and that _hurt_). Greyback's nails were scratching at his scalp.

"'Ey, now," Scabior gasped, trembling slightly, "what the hell're you–?"

"Suck," growled Greyback, and Scabior realised that his other hand had pulled his pants down slightly – and Greyback was half-hard already.

"What? Why?" spluttered Scabior.

"Death Eaters aren't supposed to ask why," snarled Greyback, and he pushed Scabior's head further between his legs. Scabior tried to resist.

"But–"

"Because I have needs, pretty, and they aren't always met. Anything, you said. Anything to be a Death Eater."

"Right," said Scabior grimly, and tried not to look at it. It looked very aggressive.

It wasn't as though he hadn't done it before – he'd hung out backstage with dirt-poor rock bands at his local clubs, of course he had done it before. But that was different. That was in a haze of drink and smoke and teenage rebellion and this – this was just so very wrong. He knew what his mother would say if she knew. He shuddered, and tried not to think about her.

"Go on, then," growled Greyback with inpatience, and forced Scabior's head closer to him, almost shoving the cock into his mouth. It butted against Scabior's lips – and Scabior had no choice but to open them. He was fairly certain Greyback would rip him to shreds if he so much as tried to stand up now. And besides, how bad could it be? He'd just have to not think about it.

He opened his mouth, and took it – the _thing _– in. He tried desperately not to gag, and did as he had been told. It was bigger than the lead singer of the local band's–No. He would think about the Death Eaters instead, and all the money he would make eventually, and how pleased his mother would be, and how he would buy an enormous house and even a Muggle car if he wanted, yes, Muggles loved their cars–

Greyback groaned and his grip of Scabior's hair became tighter. He leant back, hips bucking forward slightly, and his fingernails dug into the countertop; Scabior could see them leaving indents. Shoddy workmanship. He wondered if he knew the spell to fix it, if he could remember it from his schooldays...

He tried to go through all the spells he'd learnt, in alphabetical order, but he couldn't think where to begin. It hardly mattered, though, because he suddenly felt Greyback's leg twitch against the side of his head. The bigger man let out something akin to a howl, and Scabior's mouth filled with a putrid liquid. He pulled away, trying not to throw it up, and, having nothing else to do with it, forced himself to swallow it.

On his hands and knees, he crawled across the floor a bit, unable to stop himself retching, but trying not to look as though he was too disgusted by Greyback. He sat up, wiped his mouth with he back of his hand, then turned to look at the werewolf. He was fixing his belt, pulling his robes back into place. When he was finished – and he took his time – he looked at Scabior, seeming more mellow now.

"And was that–Was that alright?" asked Scabior, not knowing quite what he should say.

Greyback gave a non-committal shrug. "I've had better."

"Oh," said Scabior, and he wiped the back of his hand on his trousers. He'd have to get those washed later, that was disgusting. "But you'll let me in now? I mean, do proper jobs and stuff?"

Greyback's brow furrowed in confusion. "I can help you get a leg up, but... Honestly? You're going to have to do more than suck some cock to get into the Death Eaters."

And with that, he left, stopping just for a moment to pat Scabior on the cheek and smile in an almost apologetic, mocking sort of way. Scabior stared after him, stunned, and heard the door slam shut as he left for the evening.

_Well_, said that little voice in his head that wouldn't shut up, _at least he likes you. At least he's offered to help out._

_Get out of there now_, said another voice. _Because next time it won't be that, it'll be worse, he already told you. Murder. You can't do that. You're not a murderer. You're not, you're not._

_Naughty. What would your mother say? _said a third voice.

The first one was loudest, so Scabior ignored the other two.

xxx

That night, he dreamed of ants. They were everywhere: in his boots, in his hair, crawling up his nose. He spat, trying to get rid of them as they crawled down the back of his throat and into his mouth, their tiny legs pinching his tongue. He tried to run from them, but he tripped over something unseen and landed face-first in a pile of bloodied bones. He looked up to see Wilkes and Greyback laughing at him. He tried to yell at them, to yell for help, but they ignored him and laughed even harder. Scabior pounded his fists on the floor in frustration – and then he was in his own bed, drenched in sweat and clenching his pillow.

He sat up, scraping too-long, now damp hair out of his face. He was panting slightly, his heart pounding away. His mouth was dry, and he could still feel the ants crawling over his tongue. He swallowed, painfully, and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and heading across the hall to the bathroom in the darkness.

It was clean and bright and safe, and he turned the tap on with great relief, his heart slowing slightly. The pictures on the walls were dozing, hanging crookedly – they always were – and the toothbrushes were lined up as neatly as his mother could make them sit. She spent fifteen minutes every morning and evening cleaning the tiny bathroom, and it smelled of lavender soap and toothpaste. Scabior stared at himself in the mirror, and then turned on the tap. He held his hands under it, hoping to drink or wash his face – but nothing came out for a moment. Then, with a gushing sound, thousands upon thousands of tiny worker ants poured out into his hands, a glistening black cascade, and he screamed.

"...and your grandmother's comin' over today, so get up and put some clothes on. If she sees you and the house in this state she'll never let me hear the end of it. Not good enough for her son, my arse. Wonder if she knows what a lazy git she's raised...?"

Scabior jolted awake. It was his mother's voice. She was standing above him, holding a basket of washing under one arm, just starting to turn away. Sunlight was streaming through the windows and Scabior found himself not in his bed but on the sofa, with a crick in his neck, but still soaked in sweat and his mouth bone-dry. His stomach felt tight and queasy and he sat up, kicking his blankets off and raking his hair out of his face. He stared at his mother's back; she was heading towards the kitchen now, still talking about his grandmother's visit.

He stood up and made his way to the downstairs bathroom, and after a moment's hesitation he turned the tap on. The water came out clean and clear and cold, and for that he was grateful. He gathered it in a pool in his hands, and splashed it over his face. He studied himself in the mirror – and realised he looked as bad as he felt. His eyes were red and puffy. The right was worse; it looked quite as bad as it had the night he'd been beaten up. He wondered if he had been lying on it a funny way. His skin was pale and seemed too big for him somehow, and he had a hint of stubble from forgetting to shave the day before. He groaned as his stomach gave a lurch, and he tried not to vomit, and tried not to think about the night before. He had spent the entire evening gagging at the memory. It wasn't even that the act itself had bothered him too much; it was the feeling of being taken for a fool that was getting to him. But he washed his face and tucked his hair behind his ears and went back into the living room, fully prepared to act like he was fine. He would never live down his mother's taunts if he decided to quit his 'job'.

She was standing by the window holding a scroll of parchment, and scowled as he came in. "Put a shirt on, for God's sake, Eddie. This came for you." She tossed the parchment at him and he just about caught it. "Read it fast then get ready to shift them boxes into the garage." She gestured, and went off with a saucepan in one hand and a mop in the other.

Scabior unravelled the parchment with an uncertain feeling in his stomach. He wasn't sure if it was excitement or terror. He knew it was Death-Eater related - no-one else ever wrote to him. He wasn't sure, though, if he wanted to read it. He wasn't sure if he was up to facing Greyback again – yet, anyway. But he found himself scanning the page nonetheless.

_Mr Scabior_, it read,

_I've been asked to write to you on behalf of Fenrir Greyback. He doesn't have an owl, you understand. He wishes me to inform you that he would like you to accompany him on his next work-related excursion. The date is next Thursday, the time is 9 pm. He would have you meet him at his house._

_I hope you don't fuck up like last time._

_Best wishes, Augustus Rookwood_

Scabior exhaled, somewhat with relief. At the very least, he'd have time to gather his thoughts, to make it clear to Greyback that he wasn't a pawn or–Alright, maybe not. Maybe Greyback would always have the upper hand, because he was bigger, and stronger, and more experienced, and maybe even a little evil. But Scabior was thrilled, if he was honest with himself. Greyback had listened to him. He was going to bring him with him. Scabior was going to be given a proper swing at this whole Death Eater thing. And he was just glad that his efforts had paid off.


End file.
